The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster Page 9

  Florian muttered, “Jove, but he can ride!”

  Cranford made a mental note that the next time he met his alleged “cousin,” he’d demand an explanation for the man’s presence on his land. His land… Muse Manor belonged to all of them. He was merely the guardian of the estate. He looked north-east across the meadowland to the distant swell of hills beyond the bridge. A pale winter sun threw cloud shadows onto the slopes and set the river sparkling. It was so green and quiet and lovely, even though the trees did not yet wear their leaves and the meadow flowers still slept. By heaven, but they would not lose the dear old place! Miss Cordelia Stansbury would be duly pursued, and Perry would have his house and his acres! There would be snowdrops and crocus appearing to greet the bride, and spring would carpet the woods with bluebells and—

  His dreaming introspection was cut off by a tug at his arm, followed immediately by the sharp crack of a musket. Florian uttered a startled shout. The retort reverberated deafeningly, as thunder tended to do among these hills. Sport snorted and shied, and Tassels neighed in fright.

  “What—the devil…?” gasped Florian.

  Cranford was already turning the cart into the shelter of a copse of trees and calling Tassels to them.

  Florian exclaimed, “You never think—”

  “Some fool, hunting, belike.”

  “But—the ball passed right between us! See—it tore your sleeve!”

  “Stay here!” Cranford sprang down from the cart, and, as far as possible keeping to cover, sprinted up the slope. He scanned the countryside narrowly, but there was no sign of anyone, riding or afoot.

  Florian came to join him, breathless and pale, but clutching a sturdy branch with resolution. “Do you see him, sir?”

  “No. He’ll be far off by now.”

  “Mr. Valerian must have heard the shot. He’ll come back.”

  “Very likely. Let’s get you home.”

  Climbing painfully into the cart, Florian muttered, “Poachers don’t usually carry muskets—too loud.”

  Guiding Sport back towards the Manor, Cranford glanced down at the tear in his sleeve. The ball had come damnably close. If somebody had actually been aiming at him, he must be a fine marksman. But why should anyone want him dead? He glanced instinctively to the south, although it was unlikely that Finchley could have saddled up and ridden ahead in time to stage an ambush. It was also unlikely that, despite his ferocious disposition, the man would stoop to murder by stealth. He was crude and a bully, but although he had drawn back from a prospective duel, he was not a coward. If he meant to take revenge he’d call his opponent out, like a gentleman. And at all events there was no sign of a rider in that direction. Perhaps it really had been unintentional. A poacher who’d missed his shot, then hidden away for fear of being caught. But—a poacher with a musket? As unlikely as a poacher riding a horse!

  Valerian had been riding. At speed; but he must have seen them and heard the reverberations of that shot. And Valerian had not turned back…

  Echoing his thoughts, Florian said, “We have no real quarrel with Gervaise Valerian, have we, sir?”

  Cranford told him sternly to disabuse his mind of any suspicions in that quarter, adding that he was not to mention the incident to anyone at the Manor.

  “I only wondered,” said Florian meekly.

  Bringing Sport to a faster trot, Cranford grinned as he recalled how his boot had “assisted” the dandy into the sedan chair. It was possible that his disliked and distant cousin might consider that they did indeed have a quarrel.

  Florian had more than his share of courage, but by the time they reached the Manor he was near exhaustion. Cranford half-carried him into the house. Jane Guild came running and, horrified, took charge, and Mrs. Burrows, their cook, war summoned to assist. She was a tall woman, built on generous lines, her disposition unfailingly cheerful. The handsome youth had won a special place in her heart, however, and she bristled with righteous indignation over the brutal treatment he had received.

  Cranford went up to his room. Blake came to him at once. A spare, rather taciturn individual who had never been known to betray emotion, he was the younger brother of General Nugent’s housekeeper, Eliza Turner. He had contracted a fever while serving with the Army in India, and had been sent home. In the spring the General had written to Piers noting that Johns, who had valeted the twins for several years, had now left them. If Piers had not as yet hired a new man, he was urged to consider Blake, “a most superior servant.” Piers had hired Blake on a trial basis, but had not since regretted it. The man was enigmatic and exhibited none of the possessive airs of a devoted retainer, as did Cook, and Peddars, the footman, and Sudbury, the head groom, and even Florian, who was, of course, more friend than servant. Blake might have no affection for his employer, but he was as efficient as he was silent, and Piers, who tended to be impatient with tardiness and small talk, was well satisfied.

  Blake’s eyes lingered on the tear in Cranford’s coat, but when he was informed that it was the result of “a clumsy accident,” he murmured woodenly, “As you say, sir.”

  Having washed, been provided with an undamaged coat and clean neckcloth, and brushed his wind-blown hair, Cranford hurried downstairs. His aunt was waiting for him in the breakfast parlour, where luncheon had been set out. She looked pensive and he said bracingly, “Cheer up, m’dear. The lad’s not badly injured, surely?”

  She returned his smile and confirmed this, but while accepting the bowl of cream-of-leek soup that Peddars placed before her, she remarked that Major Finchley was a most disagreeable man. Cranford glanced at her sharply, but she kept her eyes lowered. Freshly baked rolls, a platter of cold meats and cheeses, and a bowl of fruits and nuts were carried in, after which he told Peddars to serve two tankards of Kentish ale.

  Miss Guild looked at him in surprise.

  He said gravely, “You need it. You have to tell me of something distasteful, I think, ma’am.”

  She shook her head in wonderment. “It never fails to amaze me, Piers, how you can sense things—and ’tis not as if you were my twin.”

  “No. Gad! Must I expect Perry to arrive at the gallop? I particularly asked that he not be told of all these trifling—vexations.”

  “He has not been told, dear. But I’m afraid… well, you boys have always been able to know somehow if the other is in trouble.”

  It was a truth that had been nagging at the edges of his mind for some days. The last thing he wanted was for Perry to come charging home and become caught up in all these worrisome problems when he should be happily preparing for his nuptials. On the other hand, it would be a touch odd if his twin did not at least make an enquiry.

  He asked quietly, “What now, ma’am?”

  Miss Guild sighed. “This was not Florian’s first encounter with that horrid Sid Grover.”

  “I’m aware. Had you a specific incident in mind?”

  “Several, unfortunately. And—”

  She broke off as Peddars returned with two tankards of foaming ale.

  Cranford told the man he would ring if he needed him, and when the door closed he raised his tankard, saying smilingly, “A toast, Aunt Jane. To our Perry and his new house!” She lifted her eyebrows but made no comment and drank the toast willingly enough.

  He said, “Now, you were saying that you’re afraid. Not of Sidney Grover, surely?”

  Miss Guild put down her tankard and stared at it worriedly before replying. “I’m afraid there is real trouble brewing. That nasty creature took Florian in deep dislike last year, if you recall, when poor Herbert Turner drove Blake here from Town. I own the Turner boy is slow-witted, but he’s gentle and devoted to his mama.”

  “And to Valerian.”

  “Yes. So pathetic, poor creature. But that is no cause to make mock of him, and Mrs. Franck told me that Grover was horrid to him when they met in the village. Florian stood up for him, but poor Herbert was practically in tears because Grover had everybody laughing, and when Herbert tried to
defend himself he was clumsy, you know. Grover had fine sport mocking him and making him look ridiculous.”

  “Aha! So that’s why Florian decked him!” Piers grinned. “I never did have the straight of it. ’Twas jolly well done. Especially when you consider Florian is half Grover’s size.”

  His aunt uttered an exasperated but lady-like snort. “How can you say that it was well done? Do you not see what has come of it? Sidney Grover is the type of ruffian who will do anything to even the score, and I fear he’s not a man to play fair.”

  He watched her thoughtfully. She was clearly upset and nervous, which was unlike her. He said, “It seems to me that Florian was in the right of it to defend a boy who is in a roundabout fashion one of our people, and I’d guess the village folk would agree. Speaking of whom… Have you had any dealings with that pedlar who’s taken to wandering about the village?”

  “Not many. Why? Do you disapprove of the man?”

  “I know nothing to his discredit. He must be doing a good trade, since he is here so often.”

  Miss Guild looked dubious. “I doubt he shows much profit. His prices are reasonable enough. He called here a few times. His name is Joshua, and I must say he was very polite and respectful, in fact he gave me a bargain on some wool for—” Her eyes sharpened and she interrupted herself to demand, “But what has that to do with Florian defending Herbert Turner?”

  “Nought,” he said, offering her another slice of cheese. “I suppose my mind wandered, love. It happens as we grow older, I’ve heard.” She laughed and told him to speak for himself, and he said lightly, “The fact is that we chanced to see your pedlar friend in the village today, and Tio had the notion he knew him from somewhere but couldn’t recall where. Since you ladies always manage to learn everything about anyone new…”

  Undeceived by his nonchalant manner, she interposed keenly, “Tio thought he knew him? Oh, heavens! Do you take Joshua for—for some kind of government spy? If that is the case, I cannot be of much assistance. He is always ready for a chat, but never speaks of himself or his background. Do you want me to see what I can find out?”

  “There’s probably nothing to it, but—yes, you might poke around a little. Carefully. Just in case, you know. May I peel an apple for you?”

  “You may stop trying to make light of the business. Dear, oh dear! I knew you were worrying about something!”

  “Not so. I may err on the side of caution, but I never worry. You should know that.”

  “Fiddlesticks! You worry about all of us and guard us, like—like a hen with her chicks!”

  Revolted, he exclaimed, “No! That’s a horrid simile, Aunt Jane! At least name me a rooster!”

  “Well, you know what I mean. You work day and night and seldom take time for yourself and your own interests—”

  “You are my interest,” he teased, quartering the apple and passing it to her.

  “And that’s another thing. You should be looking about for a pretty lady to marry, but you so seldom go into Society that the hostesses have given up asking…” The smile had left his eyes and his face was suddenly stern; noting which she broke off and said apprehensively, “Forgive. I don’t mean to be a nag, but—”

  “But my lack of a lady is not what’s really disturbing you, is it? Out with it, love.”

  She hesitated, then said miserably, “Oh, Piers—I wish I had not to bring you more bad news, but… Oliver Dixon was here while you were out—”

  “What—again? Tio and I rode over to the farm this morning and saw the flooding. It’s an ugly mess but Florian has hired another waggon and two extra workers, which should help, if—Ah. There is something else, I see.”

  With a heavy sigh, she said, “It’s the new plough you bought, dear. One of the farm-hands found it in a ditch. It had been smashed. Deliberately, so Dixon believes. And—and, oh my, it is so sad, but… They have found Gertrude and her calf. The poor creatures drowned sometime during the night.”

  Piers sat very still and seemed scarcely to breathe. His aunt saw the colour drain from his face, leaving him very pale. He had purchased the strange-looking black-and-white heifer from a Dutch farmer who had shipped four beasts to Sussex, saying they were Friesians and demanding a high price. Piers had been among the very few men willing to meet that price. It was one of the rare occasions when the twins had disagreed. Peregrine was against the purchase, but Piers had stuck stubbornly to his convictions. It had been a struggle to raise the funds, and many there were who had scoffed and said he’d thrown his money away. Jane had named the new arrival Gertrude after a friend who had always worn black and white, but others named the animal “Cranford’s Folly” and laughed because they thought her ungainly. Peregrine had resented the jeering but Piers had taken it all in good part. He’d been proud of the heifer when she grew to be larger than other cattle, and, confident that he’d be well rewarded for his investment, had searched carefully for a worthy mate. He’d paid another high price as stud fee, and again there had been laughter and criticism. But Gertrude had presented him with a fine bull calf and the scoffers had been silenced when she became a splendid milk producer. Other landowners had begun to show an interest in the animal and Piers had planned to show her at the Summer Livestock Fair in Short Shrift. Her loss was more than a financial matter, however. Gertrude had become an affectionate creature, and would invariably wander across the pasture to greet whoever approached. They had all been fond of her, even Peregrine admitting that his twin had done well in his risky investment.

  Watching her nephew’s stricken face anxiously, Miss Guild patted his hand and said, “My dear—I am so sorry.”

  He thanked her and said gruffly that he would ride over to the Home Farm at once.

  Miss Guild walked to the stables and waited with him while his mare was saddled up. Watching his supple mount, and the way Tassels came almost at once to the gallop, she found herself praying that this latest disaster would be the last to worry him.

  6

  The air was chill by the time Cranford left the Home Farm, and the dark clouds that were climbing up the eastern horizon matched his mood. Oliver Dixon had looked grim and had little to say about the loss of Gertrude, but Mrs. Dixon, a tender-hearted woman, had shed tears. Dixon had accompanied him to the field where the cattle had been found and pointed out the spot where the flood waters had concealed a ditch into which the animals had blundered. Folding his arms across his broad chest, he’d tucked in his chin and waited in silence.

  Investigating, Cranford formed his own conclusions, saying at length, “Does it not seem odd to you that Gertrude would wade so far into the water? Surely, a beast would instinctively keep to higher ground?”

  “Aye! And so I do think, sir.” Obviously gratified that his suspicions were shared, the farmer had growled, “Nor her bull calf wouldn’t have gone paddling in that muck. Not,” he added meaningfully, “less’n he was druv! Mischief, it were, sir! Plain wickedness! Likely done by some o’ they vandals and tramps as curate were speaking of last Sunday; them what took William Goode’s pig. The wicked shall not go unpunished,’ he said. And no more should they! Trying to make off wi’ our Gertrude, they was, mark my words, and druv her into the water, being iggerant and not knowin’ how to herd cattle. Be ye goin’ to tell the constable what we thinks and about our smashed new plough, sir?”

  Cranford had promised to do so, and had then left the farm and ridden towards the Westerman property to see the new fence. Dixon’s solution to the puzzle did not satisfy him. He was plagued by a suspicion that the gunshot which had so narrowly missed him could be connected to this series of calamities and had to tell himself sternly not to allow imagination to get the best of him. If he allowed himself to believe the worst he’d have Perry sensing his alarm and posting down here! Deep in thought, he paid little attention to his surroundings until he found they were atop the Quail Hill Bridge. He swore in disgust and reined Tassels to a halt. The old hump-backed bridge was not blocked, but at a short distance from th
e north end a fence had been erected, running from the water’s edge northward across the lane for twenty or so yards, then swinging in a wide curve back to the east, where it connected with a taller fence around the Westerman house. There was a narrow gate barely sufficient to allow a single horseman or a pedestrian to pass, and a pair of wider gates, now closed, allowed access to the house. A tall sign positioned outside the house bore the warning that had so angered Oliver Dixon, painted in bold red letters.

  “Be damned!” exclaimed Cranford. “Did ever you see such an ugly mess, Tassels?”

  The fence was indeed unlovely, consisting of unpainted boards and rising to a height of about four feet. It had not been designed for beauty but to keep traffic out, and this it very efficiently did, for the river was too deep at this point to allow a team to wade across, and few men would go to the house braving that ominous sign.

  Cranford’s jaw set. He started Tassels towards the cottage, but upon glancing up saw that once again a lady wandered about the high meadows. Perhaps Miss Mary Westerman was here with her maid and there was no one else to speak with. He hesitated briefly, then turned Tassels down the bridge, flung open the smaller gate and rode towards her, raising his hat as he came up. “Searching for more of your beads, Miss Westerman?”

  She swung around, looking startled. “Oh! Good day, sir. Yes, I—er, was, as a matter of fact.”

  Her sunny smile had dawned almost at once, it was an infectious smile and his dark mood was lightened. With an answering smile he said teasingly, “And alone again! Do you not fear that your militant abigail will take you to task?”

  She gave a little rippling laugh and declared that she was in truth shaking in her shoes. Reaching up to caress the mare, she said, “You were riding this lady the first time we met. Is she your favourite? I’d not be surprised. I never saw a prettier creature. How do you call her?”

  “Her name is Tassels. Thank you, but pray do not flatter her. She is so much admired that she is already far too impressed by her own consequence.” Miss Westerman’s eyes, sparkling with amusement, met his own. He said, “No, really, it is truth. I am forever rejecting offers for her.” He put his hand over one of Tassels’ ears and half-whispered, “Some are quite tempting, but she is a managing female, and won’t allow me to consider them.” Tassels shook her head as if in confirmation, and releasing her ear he said, “There! Do you see how she voices her opinion?”